“Berenice, farewell! To-night I am going on a very long journey, to a very far land. You and I may never meet again, and so, farewell! Farewell to you, Berenice, whom I have loved, and whom I dearly love. You are the only woman who has ever wandered into my little life to teach me the great depths of human passion—and you came too late. But that was not your fault.
“For what I am doing, do you, at least, not blame me. If there were a single person in the world dependent upon me, or to whom my death would be a real loss, I would remain. But there is no one. And, whereas alive I can do you no good, dead I may! Berenice, your husband lives—in suffering and in poverty; your husband and your little boy. Freddy has looked at me out of your dark eyes, my love, and whilst I live I can never forget it. I hold his little hands, and I look into his pure, childish face, and the great love which I bear for his mother seems like an unholy thing. Leave your husband out of the question—put every other consideration on one side, Freddy’s eyes must have kept us apart for ever.
“And, dear, it is your boy’s future, and the care of your stricken husband, which must bring you into closer and more intimate touch with the vast world of human sorrows. Love is a sacrifice, and life is a sacrifice. I know, and that knowledge is the comfort of my last sad night on earth, that you will find your rightful place amongst her toiling daughters. And it is because there is no fitting place for me by your side that I am very well content to die. For myself, I have well counted the cost. Death is an infinite compulsion. Our little lives are but the veriest trifle in the scale of eternity. Whether we go into everlasting sleep, or into some other mystic state, a few short years here more or less are no great matter, Berenice.”
Again there came that curious pain at his heartstrings, and the singing in his ears. The pen slipped from his fingers; his head drooped.
“Berenice!” he whispered. “Berenice!”
And as though by a miracle she heard him, for she was close at hand. Whilst he had been writing, the door was softly opened and closed, a tall, grey-mantled figure stood upon the threshold. It was Berenice!
“May I come in?” she cried softly. Her face was flushed, and her cheeks were wet, but a smile was quivering upon her lips.
He did not answer. She came into the room, close to his side. Her fingers clasped the hand which was hanging over the side of his chair. The lamp had burnt very low; she could scarcely see his face.
“Dear, I have come to you,” she murmured. “I am sorry. I want you to forgive me. I do love you! you know that I love you!”
The pressure of her fingers upon his hand was surely returned. She stood up, and her cloak slipped from her shoulders on to the floor.
“Why don’t you speak to me? Don’t you hear? Don’t you understand? I have come to you! I will not be sent away! It is too late! My carriage brought me here. I have told my people that I shall not be returning! Come away with me to-night! Let us start now! Listen! it is too late to draw back! Every one knows that I have come to you! We shall be so happy! Tell me that you are glad!”
There was no answer. He did not move. She came close to him, so that her cheek almost touched his.
“Tell me that you are glad,” she begged. “Don’t argue with me any more. If you do, I shall stop your mouth with kisses. I am not like you, dear! I must have love! I cannot live alone any longer! I have touched the utmost limits of my endurance! I will stay with you! You shall love me! Listen! If you do not, I swear—but no! You will save me from that! Oh, I know that you will! But don’t argue with me! Words are so cold, and I am a woman—and I must love and be loved, or I shall die.... Ah!”
She started round with a little scream. Her eyes, frightened and dilated, were fixed upon the door. On the threshold a little boy was standing in his night-shirt, looking at her with dark, inquiring eyes.
“I want Mr. Matravers, if you please,” he said deliberately. “Will you tell him? He don’t know that I’m here yet! He will be so surprised! Charlie Dunlop—that’s where I live—has the fever, and dad sent me here with a letter, but Mr. Matravers was out when we came, and nurse put me to bed. Now she’s gone away, and I’m so lonely. Is he asleep? Please wake him, and tell him.”
She turned up the lamp without moving her eyes from the little white-clad figure. A great trembling was upon her! It was like a voice from the shadows of another world. And Matravers, why did he not speak?
Slowly the lamp burned up. She leaned forward. He was sitting with his head resting upon his hand, and the old, faint smile parting his lips. But he did not look up! He did not speak to her! He was sitting like a carved image!
“For God’s sake speak to me!” she cried.
Then a certain rigidity in his posture struck her for the first time, and she threw herself on the ground beside him with a cry of fear. She pressed her lips to his, chafed his cold hand, and whispered frantically in his ear! But there was no answer—there never could be any answer. Matravers was dead, and the wine-glass at his side was untasted.
Berenice did not faint! She did not even lose consciousness for a moment. Moaning softly to herself, but dry-eyed, she leaned over his shoulder and read the words which he had written to her, of which, indeed, the ink was scarcely dry. When she had finished, she took up the wine-glass in her own fingers, holding it so steadily that not a drop was spilt.
Here was the panacea she craved! The problem of her troubled life was so easily to be solved. Rest with the man she loved!
Her arms would fold around him as she sank to the ground. Perhaps he was already waiting for her somewhere—in one of those mystic worlds where the soul might shake itself free from this weary burden of human passions and sorrows. Her lips parted in a wonderful smile. She raised the glass!
There was a soft patter across the carpet, and a gentle tug at her dress.
“I am very cold,” Freddy cried piteously, holding out a little blue foot from underneath his night-shirt. “If you don’t want to wake Mr. Matravers, will you take me up to bed, please?”
Through a mist of sudden tears, she looked down into her boy’s face. She drew a deep, quick breath—her fingers were suddenly nerveless. There was a great dull stain on the front of her dress, the wine-glass, shattered into many pieces, lay at her feet. She fell on her knees, and with a little burst of passionate sobs took him into her arms.
There were grey hairs in the woman’s head, although she was still quite young. A few yards ahead, the bath chair, wheeled by an attendant, was disappearing in the shroud of white mist, which had suddenly rolled in from the sea. But the woman lingered for a moment with her eyes fixed upon that dim, distant line, where the twilight fell softly upon the grey ocean. It was the single hour in the long day which she claimed always for her own—for it seemed to her in that mysterious stillness, when the shadows were gathering and the winds had dropped, that she could sometimes hear his voice. Perhaps, somewhere, he too longed for that hour—a dweller, it might be, in that wonderful spirit world of the unknown, of which he had spoken sometimes with a curiously grave solemnity. Her hands clasped the iron railing, a light shone for a moment in the pale-lined face turned so wistfully seawards!
Was it the low, sweet music of the sea, or was it indeed his voice in her ears, languorous and soft, long-travelled yet very clear. Somewhere at least he must know that hers had become at his bidding the real sacrifice! A smile transfigured her face! It was for this she had lived!
Then there came her summons. A querulous little cry reached her from the bath chair, drawn up on the promenade. She waved her hand cheerfully.
“I am coming,” she cried; “wait for me!”
But her face was turned towards that dim, grey line of silvery light, and the wind caught hold of her words and carried them away over the bosom of the sea—upwards!
THE END.
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM’S NOVELS
Illustrated. Cloth. $1.50 Each
The Lost Ambassador
A straightforward mystery story, the plot of which hinges on the sale of two battleships.
The Illustrious Prince
The tale of a world-startling international intrigue.
Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious plots and weaving them around attractive characters.—London Morning Mail
Jeanne of the Marshes
An engrossing tale of love and adventure.
A real Oppenheim tale, abundantly satisfying to the reader.—New York World
The Governors
A romance of the intrigues of American finance.
The ever welcome Oppenheim.—Boston Transcript
The Missioner
Strongly depicts the love of an earnest missioner and a worldly heroine with a past.
An entrancingly interesting romance.—Pittsburg Post
The Long Arm of Mannister
A distinctly different story that deals with a wronged man’s ingenious plan of revenge.
Mannister is a powerfully drawn character.—Philadelphia Press
As a Man Lives, or the Mystery of the Yellow House
Tells of an English curate and his mysterious neighbor.
Every page in it suggests a mystery.—Literary World, London
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers, BOSTON
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM’S NOVELS
Illustrated. Cloth. $1.50 Each
A Maker of History
A capital story that “explains” the Russian Baltic fleet’s attack on the North Sea fishing fleet.
An enthralling tale, with a surprisingly well-sustained mystery, and a series of plots, counterplots, and well-managed climaxes.—Brooklyn Times
The Malefactor
An amazing story of the strange revenge of Sir Wingrave Seton, who suffered imprisonment for a crime he did not commit.
Spirited, aggressive, vigorous, mysterious, and, best of all, well told.—Boston Transcript
A Millionaire of Yesterday
A gripping story of a West African miner who clears his name of a great stain.
A thrilling story throughout.—Philadelphia Press
The Man and His Kingdom
An intensely dramatic tale of love, intrigue, and adventure in a South American state.
A daring bit of fiction, full of vigorous life and unflagging interest.—Chicago Tribune
The Betrayal
An enthralling story of treachery of state secrets in high diplomatic circles of England.
The denouement is almost as surprising as the mystery is baffling.—Public Opinion
A Daughter of the Marionis
A melodramatic story of Palermo and London, that is replete with action.
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers, BOSTON
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM’S NOVELS
Illustrated. Cloth. $1.50 Each
A Prince of Sinners
An engrossing story of English social political life, with powerfully drawn characters.
Thoroughly matured, brilliantly constructed, and convincingly told.—London Times
It is rare that so much knowledge of the world, taken as a whole, is set between two covers of a novel.—Chicago Daily News
Anna the Adventuress
A surprising tale of London life, with a most engaging heroine.
The consequences of a bold deception Mr. Oppenheim has unfolded to us with remarkable ingenuity. The story sparkles with brilliant conversation and strong situations.—St. Louis Republic
Mysterious Mr. Sabin
An ingenious story of a bold international intrigue with an irresistibly fascinating “villain.”
Intensely readable for its dramatic force, its absolute originality, and the strength of the men and women who fill its pages.—Pittsburg Times
The Yellow Crayon
Containing the exciting experiences of Mr. Sabin with a powerful secret society.
This stirring story shows unusual originality.—New York Times
The Master Mummer
The strange romance of Isobel de Sorrens and the part a mysterious actor played in her life.
A love tale laden with adventure and intrigue, with a saving grace of humor.—Philadelphia North American
The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown
A mystery story, rich in sensational incidents and dramatic situations.
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers, BOSTON
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM’S NOVELS
Illustrated. Cloth. $1.50 Each
The Avenger
Unravels an intricate tangle of political intrigue and private revenge with consummate power of fascination.
A lively, thrilling, captivating story.—New York Times
A Lost Leader
Weaves a realistic romance around a striking personality.
Mr. Oppenheim is one of the few writers who can make a political novel as interesting as a good detective story.—The Independent, New York
The Great Secret
Deals with a stupendous international conspiracy.
Founded on a daring invention and daringly carried out.—The Boston Globe
Enoch Strone: A Master of Men
The story of a masterful self-made man who made a foolish marriage early in life.
In no other novel has Mr. Oppenheim created such life-like characters or handled his plot with such admirable force and restraint.—Baltimore American
A Sleeping Memory
The remarkable tale of an unhappy girl who consented to be deprived of her memory, with unlooked-for consequences.
He deals with the curious and unexpected, and displays all the qualities which made him famous.—St. Louis Globe-Democrat
The Traitors
A capital story of love, adventure, and Russian political intrigue in a small Balkan state.
Swift-moving and exciting. The love episodes have freshness and charm.—Minneapolis Tribune
LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers, BOSTON
Transcriber’s Notes:
1. Minor changes have been made to correct obvious typesetter errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.
2. The original of this e-text did not have a Table of Contents; one has been added for the reader’s convenience.
3. Minor changes have been made in the placement of page numbers, to accommodate placement of illustrations.